The Ringmaster's Plight
by KeshaRocks
Summary: In a world where talk of angels is folly, the Moogle Circus is well known for its heavenly attraction. Bearing eyes of brightest blue, hair of sunshine gold, he tends to get into . . . deadly situations. In result, he is forced to hide his face. As ringmaster Axel starts to grow fond of him, he will soon discover that his "little angel" might be hiding more than his just his face.
1. Prologue

The house was creaking in the brisk winds the night his mother walked into his bedroom – far less grand than the one in the palace, but still lovely. They only summered here, as the house was too drafty for winter, and the roads too perilous. The fact that they'd come . . .

"Still not asleep?" his mother asked. Lady Aerith rose from beside the bed. After a few warm words, Aerith left, smiling at them both

His mother curled up on the mattress, drawing him in close. One of her velvet soft wings wrap around him, the other shielding them together into their little cocoon. Her wings were so smooth and soft, like the wings of a dove. He had always hoped he would grow wings like hers at his coming of age. "I'm sorry." His mother whispered onto his head. For the nightmares had also been of downing – of icy water closing over his head. "I am so sorry, Whitefeather."

He buries his face in his mother's chest, savoring the warmth.

"Are you still frightened of sleeping?"

He nods, clinging tighter.

"I have a gift, then." When he didn't move, his mother said, "Don't you with to see it?"

He shook his head. He didn't want a gift.

"But this will protect you from harm – this will keep you safe always."

He lifts his head to find his mother smiling as she removed the silver chain and heavy, round medallion from beneath her nightgown and held it out to him.

He looked at the amulet, then at his mother, eyes wide.

The Amulet of Twilight Town. The heirloom honored above all others of their house. Its round disk was the size of his palm, and on its cerulean front, a golden chocobo had been carved of horn – horn gifted from the Lord of the Forest. Hovering over his back of fluffed feathers is a burning crown of white, the immortal star that watched them and pointed the way home to Kingdom Hearts. He knew every inch of the amulet, had run his fingers over it countless times and memorized the shape of the symbols etched into the back – words in a strange language that no one could ever remember.

"Father gave this to you when you were in Agrabah. To protect you."

The smile remained. "And before that, his uncle gave it to him when he came of age. It is a gift meant to be given to people in our family – those who need its guidance."

He was too stunned to object as his mother slipped the chain over his head and arranged the amulet down his front. It hung almost to his navel, a warm, heavy weight. "Never take it off. Never lose it." His mother kissed his brow. "Wear it, and know that you are loved, Whitefeather – that you are safe, and it is the strength of this" – she placed a hand on his heart – "that matters. Wherever you go, Ventus," she whispered, "no matter how far, this will lead you home."

He had lost the Amulet of Twilight Town. Lost it that very same night.

Hours after his mother had given him the Amulet of Twilight Town, a storm had struck.

It was a storm of unnatural darkness, and in it he felt that wriggling, horrific _thing_ pushing against his mind again. His parents remained unconscious along with everyone else in the manor, even though a strange smell coated the air.

He had clutched the amulet to his chest when he awake to the pure dark and the thunder – clutched it and prayed to every god he knew. But the amulet had not given him strength or courage, and he had slunk to his parents' room, as black as his own, save for the window flapping in the gusting wind and rain.

The rain had soaked everything, but – they had to be exhausted from dealing with him, and from the anxiety they tried to hide. So he shut the window for them, and carefully crawled into their damp bed so that he did not wake them. They didn't reach for him, their wings didn't flutter, didn't ask what was wrong, and the bed was so cold – colder than his own, and reeking of copper and iron, and that scent that did not sit well with him.

It was to the scent that he awoke when the maid screamed.

Lady Aerith rushed in, eyes wide but clear. She did not look at her dead friends, but went straight to the bed and leaned across Aqua's corpse and stiff white wings. The lady-in-waiting was small and delicately boned, but she somehow lifted him away from his parents, holding him tightly as she rushed from the room. The few servants at the manor were in a panic, some racing for help that was at least a day away – some fleeing.

Lady Aerith stayed.

Aerith stayed and drew a bath, helping him peel away the cold, bloody nightgown. They did not talk, did not try. Lady Aerith bathed him, and when he was clean and dry, she carried him down to the cold kitchen. Aerith sat him at the long table, bundled in a blanket, and set about building the hearth fire.

He had not spoken today. There were no sounds or words left in him, anyway.

One of the few remaining servants burst in, shouting to the empty house that King Terra was dead, too. His strong, eagle wings ripped from his back. Murdered in his bed just like –

Lady Aerith was out of the kitchen with her teeth bared before the man could enter. Ventus didn't listen to gentle Aerith slapping the servant, ordering him to get out and find help – find _real_ help and not useless news.

Murdered. His family was – dead. There was no coming back from death, and his parents . . . What had the servants done with their . . . their . . .

Shaking hit him so hard the blanket tumbled away. He couldn't stop his teeth from clacking. It was a miracle he stayed in the chair.

It couldn't be true. This was another nightmare, and he would awaken to his father stroking his hair, his mother smiling, awaken in Twilight Town on Sunset Terrace, and –

The warm weight of the blanket wrapped around him again, and Lady Aerith scooped him in her lap, rocking. "I know. I'm not going to leave – I'm going to stay here with you until help comes. They'll be here tomorrow. Lord Sephiroth, Captain Tidus, your Cloud – they're all going to be here tomorrow. Maybe even by dawn." But Lady Aerith was shaking, too. "I know." she kept saying, weeping quietly. "I know."

The fire died down, along with Aerith's crying. They held on to each other, rooted to that kitchen chair. They waited for the dawn, and for the others who would help, somehow.

A clopping issued from outside – faint, but the world was silent that they had heard the lone horse. It was still dark. Lady Aerith scanned the kitchen windows, listening to the hose slowly circling, until –

They were under the table in a flash, Aerith pressing him into the freezing floor, covering him with her delicate body and her wings cocooning them tightly. The horse headed toward the darkened front of the house.

The front, because – because the kitchen light might suggest to whoever it was that someone was inside. The front was better for sneaking in . . . to finish what had begun the night before.

"Ventus," Aerith whispered, and small, strong hands found his face, forcing him to look at the white-as-snow features, the bloodred lips. "Ventus, listen to me." Though Aerith was breathing quickly, her voice was even. "You are going to run for the river. Do you remember the way to the footbridge?"

The narrow rope and wood bridge across the ravine and the rushing Poescas River below. He nodded.

"Good boy. Make for the bridge, and cross it. Do you remember the empty farm down the road find a place to hide there – and do not come out, do not let yourself be seen by _anyone_ except someone you recognize. Not even if they say they're a friend. Wait for the court – they will find you."

He was shaking again. But Aerith gripped his shoulders. "I am going to buy you what time I can, Ventus. No matter what you hear, no matter what you see, don't look back, and don't stop until you find a place to hide."

He shook his head, silent tears finding their way out at last. The front door groans – a quick movement.

Lady Aerith reached for the dagger in her boot. It glints in the dim light. "When I say run, you run, Ventus. Do you understand?"

He didn't want to, not at all, but he nodded.

Lady Aerith brushed a kiss to her brow. "Tell my Zack . . ." her voice broke. "Tell my Zack that I love him very much."

A soft thud of approaching footsteps from the front of the house. Lady Aerith drags him from under the table and eased open the kitchen door only wide enough for him to squeeze through.

"Run _now_." Lady Aerith said, and shoved him into the night.

The door shut behind him, and then there was only the cold, dark air and the trees that led toward the path to the bridge. He staggered into a run. His legs were leaden, his bare feet tearing into the ground. But he made it to the trees – just as there was a crash from the house.

He grips a trunk, his knees buckling. Through the open window, he could see Lady Aerith standing before a hooded, towering man, her daggers out but trembling. "You will not find him."

The man said something that had Aerith backing to the door, her wings spreading wide – not to run, but to block it.

She was so small, his nursemaid. So small against him. "He is a _child_ ," Aerith bellowed. He had never heard her scream like that – with rage and disgust and despair. Aerith raised her daggers, precisely how her husband had shown her again and again.

He should help, not cower in the trees. He had leaned to hold a knife and a small sword. He should help.

The man lunged for Aerith, but she darted out of the way – and then leapt on him, slicing and tearing and biting.

And then something broke – something broke so fundamentally he knew there was no coming back from it, either for him or Lady Aerith – as the man grabbed the woman and there her against the edge of the table. A crack of bone, then the arc of his blade going for her stunned form – for her head. Red splayed.

He knew enough about death to understand that once ahead was severed like that, it was over. Knew that Lady Aerith, who had loved his husband and daughter so much, was gone. Knew that this – this was called sacrifice.

He ran. Ran through he barren trees, the brush ripping his clothes, his hair, shredding and biting. The man didn't bother to be quiet as he flung open the kitchen door, mounted his horse, and galloped for him. The hoofbeats were so powerful they seemed to echo through the forest – the horse had to be a monster.

He tripped over a root and slammed into the earth. In the distance, the melting river was roaring. So close, but – his ankle gave a bolt of agony. Stuck – he was stuck in the mud and roots. He yanked at the root that held him, wood ripping his nails, and when that did nothing, he clawed at the muddy ground. His fingers burned.

How he wished he had wings. He would be gone. Vanish into the clouds, evade every arrow with maddening ease.

A sword whined as it was drawn from its sheath, and the ground reverberated with the pounding hooves of the horse. Closer, closer it came.

A sacrifice – it had been a sacrifice, and now it would be in vain.

More than death, that was what he hated most – the wasted sacrifice of Lady Aerith. He clawed at the ground and yanked at the roots, and then –

Tiny eyes in the dark, small figures at the roots, heaving them up, up. His foot slipped free and he was up again, unable to thank the Little Folk who had already vanished, unable to do anything but _run_ , limping now. The man was so close, the bracken cracking behind, but he knew the way. He had come through here so many times that the darkness was no obstacle.

He only had to make it to the bridge. His horse could not pass, and he was fast enough to outrun him. The Little Folk might help him again. He only had to make it to the bridge.

A break in the trees – and the river's roar grew overpowering. He was so close now. He felt and heard, rather than saw, his horse break through the trees behind him, the whoosh of his sword as he lifted it, preparing to cleave his head right there.

There were the twin posts, faint in the moonless night. The bridge. He had made it, and now he had only yards, now a few feet, now –

The breath of his horse was hot on his neck as he flung himself between the two posts of the bridge, making a leap onto the wood planks.

Making the leap onto thin air.

He had not missed it – no, those were the posts and –

He had cut the bridge.

It was only his only thought as he plummeted, so fast he had no time to scream before he hit the icy water and was pulled under.


	2. Chapter 1

"Roxas!"

The young blonde jolts when someone screams his name. He looks up from the large, green book in his lap to find Xigbar glaring at him with that one good eye, the other covered by an eyepatch. His hands on his hips, Xibgar's expression softens as he sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. Roxas can't help but stare the delicately pointed ears Xigbar has as he shakes his head.

He was one of the more popular attractions of the Moogle Circus simply for those ears alone. He claimed he hails from Hollow Bastion out in the eastern continent, but his pale skin suggests something more along the shadowed countryside. At least out there, there are enough Elven warriors to suggest he might have gotten those impressive injuries while on the killing fields.

But it also makes him rather, a mockery. The idea of a once-skilled warrior now reduced to a simple circus act. That'll help the Elves and their reputation.

Apart from the pointed ears, Xigbar sports oddly upturned eyebrows, and dark hair with several grey streaks that is tied into a long ponytail. If one had to guess, Xigbar could have easily been a man of immensely attractive features, but his right eye was badly damaged and also has a large, jagged scar extending from his left cheek to just under his left eye. And it's his left eye, a bright golden-brown, gives him any source of pride.

"I told you already, Larxene needs your help." He says.

"I am not, going to be her target practice again. Remember the last time she tried?" Roxas growls, his voice sounding like gravel beneath his ebony hood and cowl. The heat of his face seeping into the large scar that stretches across his neck, given to him by Larxene when she insisted Roxas help her with her knife throwing.

Xigbar rolls his eyes, but gives a smirk. "It's not for that, she just needs your help setting up the wheel." Roxas simply stares at the man, his stunning turquoise eyes the only beauty that breaks past his attire of black. "Just go help her set it up," Xigbar says with a pointed finger of his shoulder. "and you can get back to your reading."

"Fine." Roxas growls. Concealed behind a far-too-stuffy black cloak, tunic and ebony mask, he slams the book shut and eases himself off of the front steps of the gypsy wagon belonging to his friend Namine. She was cooped up inside the wagon, most likely setting it up with its rounded table, star-designed cloth and her polished quartz crystal ball.

He brushes past Xigbar and steps his way through the courtyard with a feline grace. As Roxas looks around him, the chaos of the area sucks him up. The carnival he has traveled and commissioned with since the age of eight, has finally arrived at the marketplace of the Destiny Isles in honor of a young prince's birthday.

It's not a massive carnival; only a few black tents, a dozen cage wagons, and five covered wagons have been set up in the open courtyard. The whole thing feels rather somber, as always, despite the fiddler sawing away and the merry shouts of the workers scrambling to finish setting up the tents in time to surprise the prince that evening. The only disappointing issue for Roxas is that the carnival is in full view of the marketplace, as the courtyard of the castle has no fence. So citizens always stop by for a couple minutes to observe the men working to set up the tents and get a sneak peek at the animals and attractions. While Roxas likes to see the excitement in their eyes, see the children grab their parents and point an ecstatic finger towards one of the exotic animals being fed, he usually prefers that the carnival be out of sight, without any part of the attractions being shown, just for that overall surprise for the viewers, that way they won't know what to expect.

He wouldn't so mind it much, except that they are currently performing in the continent of the Destiny Islands, meaning that with the cramped tents and the stench of the animals in their cages combined with the already-sizzling temperature of the islands means Roxas is sweating buckets beneath his clothing.

But his discomfort is worth it: as he strode through the workers and fellow co-workers, the heads of the gazing citizens turn at the sight of him – his billowing black cape, the exquisite clothing, and the mask transforms him into a whisper of darkness. The viewers probably thought him to be a deadly assassin, and Roxas doesn't mind that. He adds to it by purposely adjusting his cape so the people can get a look at the long dagger with a bejeweled hilt strapped to his waist. A little intimidation never did any harm.

He walks across the gravel walkway leading around the massive perimeter of the castle, and finds Larxene's tent. It is one of the bigger sized tents – a ten by ten – with the flap left open. It is of the circus's theme colors of red and gold, with a single pole at the epicenter, creating the flagpole with a crimson red flag flapping in the wind.

Roxas finds Larxene and one of the acrobatics Xion as they try to heave the large, multi-colored spinning wheel up onto the duel bearing hub. They both grab it by its pegs and try to lift, but can't get it more than just an inch off of the ground. They immediately drop it after two seconds.

Honestly, why did _he_ have to help? Why not just get Lexaeus to do it; he is titled _The Strongest Man Alive_ for a reason. Still, Roxas sighs and shakes his head as he approaches. Larxene flicks her cerulean eyes up and her eyes narrow, and she grins like a fiend.

"Oh great, the Harlot Prince is here to help. Unless you're worried about breaking a nail." Larxene is undoubtedly cold, ruthless, and uncaring, and appears to love nothing more than to bring other people down. However, she oddly displays childish and playful behavior, laughing and giggling excessively. Her blonde hair is slicked back and about jaw-length, with two long strands styled into a distinctive antennae-like appearance. Larxene's eyes are a vivid green and she is very slim with an hourglass figure.

Roxas' eyes narrow underneath his mask. He is hot, he is sweaty, and he will surely beat Larxene into the ground if she dares to push him in this humidity. "Hey, how are those scars on your back, Larxene? Still burning, I hope?" Roxas bites back. That shuts her up, but she doesn't hold back her snarl.

Ever since one of Larxene's daggers had grazed against Roxas' neck after he foolishly agreed to be her practice dummy, their ringmaster had ordered Larxene to be chained and whipped for every drop of blood that leaked from Roxas' neck. Despite the pain, Roxas lets the wound dribble for a minute, estimating about forty-one drops, equaling into forty-one lashes total. In result, Roxas as a scar that stretches along the side of his neck, and Larxene now has several fair-sized scars that rake down her back, and her beauty esteem has diminished greatly.

Though the sound of Larxene's screams of agony and pain still echo in his mind, though he can still see her clotted wounds being blanketed by flies when she was left out in the weather for a couple days tied to the whipping post, though the crack of the iron-tipped whip still makes Roxas cringe with a chill, he only felt pity on Larxene for the first second.

She deserved it, and he didn't particularly favor her anyway, so he had no reason to.

Besides, he _is_ one of the main _successful_ attractions here at the Moogle Circus, and their ringmaster takes his business seriously. He has seen firsthand what fights at the circus are like; each member carried a dagger, varying in a size of their choice. The weapons are as much for the bearers' own safety as they are to prevent Roxas and any other members from doing serious damage to each other. If Larxene takes one step towards Roxas, draws her dagger a fraction of an inch, that concealed dagger in Roxas' cloak would find a new home in her neck.

He is as skilled as he is beautiful. And he has to keep his beauty preserved, as it is a weapon – one he keeps honed – but it can also be a vulnerability. The mask and clothes are a necessary precaution, one that makes it far easier to hide his identity.

Roxas had lost track of how many fights had broken out in the circus' main ring from men and women alike who started bargaining for Roxas like he was some high-ranking courtesan. Most of those shows had been canceled, but their ringmaster did sell Roxas out to a few prices that, even Roxas admits, were too good to turn down. In the end, after the first day Roxas had been brought home with the winner, he simply waited until midnight and climbed out of the nearest window, and sprinted his way back to the circus in time to leave the city. Another benefit of the mask as none of the winners ever saw his face; Roxas always claiming it would be a surprise.

Larxene puffs and gives an annoyed wave of her hand. "Whatever. What are you even doing here?"

"Xigbar sent me to help you."

"Why didn't he just call for Lexaeus."

"You can ask him that yourself, or you can just assume that he only did it because I was closer."

Larxene gives a simple shrug and nod of agreement. Xigbar is one of the more laidback, if not lazy workers of the circus. Still, Roxas spares Xion a friendly nod before gripping his black-gloved hand onto one of the pegs of the wheel. Xion grips the top, and Larxene on the other side and together they managed to lift the four-and-a-half-inch wheel onto its hub. The wheel has several nicks and splinters in it from the years of being the catcher of Larxene's knives. She hasn't been able to penetrate though it, but it's believed that is her whole.

"Well, at least you're not as weak as you look."

Roxas raises his eyebrows, but realizes she can't see. All the world knew about Roxas is that he male and a member of the Moogle Circus. And he wants to keep it that way. How else would he be able to stroll the broad avenues of Market Street, or infiltrate grand parties by posing as foreign nobility? And while he wishes that most of the people could have the chance to view his lovely face, he has to admit the disguise also made him rather imposing, especially when the mask warps his voice into a growling rasp.

His beauty is the one thing that got him into the circus life in the first place; and while it wasn't something he favored, it was still better than when the ringmaster had found Roxas nearly half-frozen along the side of the road. He had said that he had never encountered beauty such as Roxas', and that means something for someone who is the head of a circus and no doubt a varying traveler of kingdoms and villages. Roxas had been newly orphaned, and even at eight, he knew that a life among gypsies and freaks and animals, with a new name that no one would recognize but someday everyone would know, was a chance to start over.

He offered warmth, food and shelter, and Roxas was desperate enough at the time to accept it. He didn't care if the tents were too thin in the winter; he didn't care that he was amongst the youngest of the workers in the circus. So long as he had something over his head, food in his stomach and an eternal coin flowing to him, he is happy. Besides, it's not all bad; he did make some friends. If not ones that he can at least have conversations with, and ones that are actually his age. Guilt for not approaching some of the other members is quickly diminished when he thinks about how they didn't bother to approach him either.

After Larxene gives a somewhat appreciative wave of her hand, Roxas gives an even simpler nod of his head. And when he walks away, Xion wordlessly follows him.

"It is wrong that I find it amusing when you two bicker?" Xion timidly asks with a smile.

"Everyone finds entertainment in their own way." Roxas replies. He would bother to smile, but his mask keeps Xion from seeing otherwise, so he doesn't. Still he lets the young acrobat follow him as he meanders his way through the throng. People's heads look Roxas' way, dressed in his expensive clothes and his cloak billowing around behind him.

A stunningly beautiful woman walks out of one of the tents – blond, slender, tall, and dressed in fine riding clothes. Lexaeus, the mountain-sized man also emerges, carrying long poles of iron that Roxas doubts mot men can even lift.

Roxas passes by one of the large covered wagons, pausing at the words written in white paint on its side:

THE CARNIVAL OF MIRRORS!

SEE ILLUSIONS AND REALITY COLLIDE!

Roxas frowns. Had the prince's mother even put a moment's consideration into the gift, into how it might appear, the message it would send? Carnivals, with their illusions and tricks, always pushed the limits of outright treason. They weren't the most successful carnival by far, but from what Roxas was told, their coin has been better thanks to the addition of having him.

"You excited for tonight?" Xion then asks. Her obsidian hair frames her round face and her sapphire eyes always seem to shine with a sort of innocence that Roxas is attracted to. Nothing romantic by any means, but just to see such innocence in a place like this, it's refreshing.

"It's the same as always. We set up, the people come in, act after act goes through the ring. Our master cracks the whip and the people fly and stick their heads in lions' mouths." Roxas huffs, though his breath only makes the interior of the insufferable mask hotter. "And I'm always the last act to be held."

"You seem bored of it by now." Xion giggles. "You can mix things up if you want, add some more flare to your act."

"Don't get me wrong, I like the standard order of things, it makes things predictable and all." Roxas admits. "Pretty sure it's just the waiting that I don't like."

Xion giggles more as she follows Roxas watching him retreat this book from Namine's wagon, and then into his large, elegantly designed wagon. It's a large wagon built with enough room to house at least four members all together, and pulled by two Clydesdale horses. The outside color itself is a deep, almost royal blue with pearl white outlines that could be made of pearl for all Xion knew. Its intricate designed structure defines that of a high class.

Roxas opens the door and ushers Xion inside. Gods, the room . . . is smells like Roxas. Lingers with his natural scent and bits of where he would spray his cologne. It consists of a bedroom with its own bathing room and plumbing system, a kitchen with a small working coal stove and cabinets holding plates of porcelain and silver, flatware that has long since gone dull. Embroidered pillows sat on either side of the cushions of the deep-cushioned couch sprawled before a carved mahogany coffee table, accented by two oversized velvet armchairs.

Even with all of the furniture in the wagon, the space doesn't feel cramped at all. Xion is one of the few people Roxas actually allows in his wagon, but she still rarely visits. And admittedly, it's out of jealousy. The wagon is only a fraction of the things that Roxas has that expresses his wealth. Everything in here is comfortable, tasteful, as if the wagon is for lounging and night by the fire. And there are so many books – on shelves, on the tables by the couch, stacked beside the large armchair before the curtained window spanning half the length of the great room.

Smart. Educated. Cultured, if the knickknacks are any indication. There are things from across the kingdoms, as if he'd picked up something everywhere he went. The room is a map of his adventures a map of a whole different person.

The kitchen is small but cozy – and . . . _Gods_. He has a cooling box. Xion knew Roxas was notorious as the circus's most famous attraction, but he hadn't mentioned he was rich.

Roxas takes his seat at his desk that is littered with papers and books. As he sorts through them, Xion wanders over to the dressing room where he finds wardrobes, and chuckles as he sees Roxas' closet hasn't changed. Despite how much Roxas saying he doesn't care much for clothing or looks, Xion knew he loved silks and velvets. She pulls out a deep purple tunic, gold embroidery around the lapels and buttons glimmer in the light from the scones. These are clothes for a man's body. And the scent still clinging to the entire chamber belongs to a man – so similar to what he remembers from Roxas' childhood, but wrapped in mystery and smiles.

Roxas opens his book from where he had left off. It is one of his favorites: _Fall of the Angels_ , a thick chronicle telling the story of how the race of angels that once ruled over the continent of Kingdom Hearts. It sounds like something that had happened hundreds of thousands of years ago, but unnervingly it was from ten years ago. A chill runs up Roxas' spine. Almost everyone knew the story of the once unnaturally beautiful and holy beings that could fly across the fields and the sky – the original inhabitants and settlers of the continent, and the oldest beings in history.

Kingdom Hearts had been the home of the angels, ruled by the King and Queen. Each kingdom of the continent was watched, guarded and protected by the royal family's most trusted and powerful Archangels. They lived in peace among the humans, and never intervened with their business.

But there were some who sought the angels as nothing more than affronts to the Goddess and her gods – that humans should be ruled by a human king, not some mutants with wings. The one of stories and legends being Lord Xehanort, the King of Hollow Bastion. And it wasn't that hard to find followers who easily rallied behind him in his false cause.

Angels were soon being hunted and killed, executed or slaughtered like animals. Their assailants ripping off their wings and selling them on the black markets for prices, or to give to nobles who would hang them in their chambers to bask. Roxas can't count on his fingers and toes how many of those beautiful wings he had seen in the rooms of those he was falsely sold to. Wings bearing from hawks, to crows, to doves to eagles. Their feathers were so perfectly smooth, gleaming in even the most limited of light. Curved perfectly in heart shapes when folded, to being twice the size of a man's arm when extended.

With the growing corruption of Hollow Bastion and their king's campaign to dethrone them, war had soon broken out between humans and angels. The angels tried to seek help from their distant brethren of gargoyles – demon-like creatures that look like they're something of an ancient god's nightmare.

Outnumbered and outvoted, the angels and their warriors fled, seeking shelter in the wild, untouched places of the world. The King of Hollow Bastion had outlawed them completely – to the point that even if an angel walked through a village, they'd be shot on sight, or brought back to the dungeons if they were lucky. He removed any trace of the angels so thoroughly that even those who had been in the kingdoms they ruled almost believed it had never really existed, Roxas himself being one of them.

He could still smell the fires that had raged through his eights and ninth years – the smoke of burning books chock-full of ancient, irreplaceable knowledge, the screams of the celestial beings and children as they'd been consumed by flames after their wings her mercilessly ripped from their backs, the storefronts and sacred places shattered and desecrated and erased form history. Many of the angels who hadn't been burned still got their wings pulled off and then wound up prisoners in slave camps like Monstro – and most didn't survive long there. It had been a while since Roxas had contemplated the people that were lost, though many of the screams still haunt his dreams.

Despite the carnage, perhaps it _was_ good that the angels had vanished. It is far too dangerous for anyone to even mention the heavenly beings in fear of being accused of conspiring. The son and heir of Xehanort, now King Xemnas, still upholds his father's rule with an iron fist. Just as cruel and unforgiving, and just as much of a bastard as his father.

While Xion helps herself to Roxas' foreign and tasty foods of his cooling box, Roxas trails a fingernail down the page of his tome until he comes to the date where he had left off.

 _This morning, King Eraqus Darkgnaw, his nephew and heir, Terra Darkgnaw, and Terra's wife, Aqua, were found assassinated. Eraqus was murdered in his bed at the royal palace in the Dominion capital city, and Terra and Aqua were found dead in their beds at the country estate along the River Kaua'I. There is no word yet about the fate of Terra and Aqua's son, Ventus_.

Aqua Stormfall. _Stormfall_. Aqua had come from Ivalice, had been a princess of the king's court. Roxas can't help but coldly chuckle at the counterintuitive property of the names Ventus, the Heir of Angels would have held. Dark and Stormy, intimidating . . .

Roxas sighs as he turns the page. An entire war that could have been prevented, or perhaps not even exist so long as someone had just talked some sense into those 'rebels'. Kingdom Hearts had been at its height of prosperity while the angels ruled. And even though King Xehanort had banned them, everyone knew the truth: Kingdom Hearts' economy plummeted once his son ascended the throne.

Nowadays it would seem the rebel forces have shifted to being against the new King Xemnas, but even whispers of that earns you a place in the king's personal dungeons. Roxas has seen that firsthand when guards came into many tavern he was at to arrest some drunk speaking ill of the king. And most of them were never heard from again.

On the last page, Ventus Darkgnaw Stormfall's name is written at the bottom, and above it, his mother, Aqua's. Roxas clenches his gloved hand into a fist, and he starts to glare at the name.

 _Ventus Darkgnaw, heir to the throne of Kingdom Hearts, died today, or sometime in the night. Before help could reach his deceased parents' estate, the assassin who had missed him the night before returned. His body has still not been found, though some believe it was thrown into the river behind his parent's house._

There is a poem scribbled at the top of the Stormfall family tree, as though some student had dashed it down as a reminder while studying.

 _Stormfall Eyes_

 _The fairest eyes, from legends old._

 _Of brightest blue, ringed with gold._

A grunt of anger growls in Roxas' throat. He then slams the book shut, scaring Xion and making her scatter her plate of green peas onto his floor. The girl flushes red and begins to mutter apologies as she falls to her knees to pick up each and one of the small peas. Roxas rises from his desk and saunters over, grabbing Xion's wrist. He lifts it and Xion's eyes find his instantly.

"It's fine." he says, his voice purring beneath his mask. "But you need to leave, I want to be alone."

Xion's lip quivers, but her eyes are wide. "Y-Yes, Roxas, um, I'll be sure to come and get you when the show will start."

"I know when it starts."

The two of them hoist to the feet and Roxas releases Xions' wrist. The young acrobat sets her place aside on Roxas' small counter and wipes her hands on her thighs. As she heads for the door, she turns back and already finds the young man sprawled across his bed mattress that looks like a cloud. She bothers to say something about the still spilt peas, but closes her mouth when the young man turns himself inward to face the wall. No more conversation.

Sighing, Xion opens the door and steps back out into the unbearable heat.

Roxas stays on his bed facing his wall. He tucks his arm under his fluffy pillow and sighs. He doesn't sleep. He shouldn't; from the way Xion sounded, it's only another hour or so before the circus opens up for the prince's birthday.

Still, he at least closes his eyes but doesn't sleep. Then when the knock comes at his wagon door, Roxas bolts and opens the door just moments later. There stands Xion just as she promised, now in her acrobatic uniform – a simple bodysuit from the neck down, skintight and vertically stripped with red. Her bangs are pinned back out of her eyes and she has on a small bit of cosmetics to being out her eyes and cheekbones.

She blushes slightly as she beholds Roxas, still in his dark clothes. "Um, show time!" She says daintily with twiddling finger.

Roxas this time gives more volume to his simple laugh, and Xion smiles as she step down and allows Roxas to come down, shutting the door behind him.

As he is about to follow Xion into the throng of act into the tent, he stops dead in his tracks as his eyes catch a flick of movement. Something fluttering down towards him with a path looking sloppy as it follows the currents of the wind left and right.

Once it's in reaching distance, Roxas opens up his hand and object lands directly in his palm. Closing his fingers around it delicately, Roxas brings it down and expects to find a butterfly.

But as he uncurls his fingers, he frowns down at the object that now rests in his palm.

A white feather.

Roxas jerks convulsively. With a small cry, he releases the plume as though it had scalded him. He watches the delicate thing sway back and forth as it falls to the sloshy, mud-puddle gouged path.

Suddenly the idea of having something so pure and bright being ruined by something gross, Roxas quickly lashes out his hand, catching the feather and hurrying back into his wagon. He quickly opens the flap of his leather satchel and stuffs the feather inside one of the hidden pockets before clasping it shut tight and stuffing the satchel under his bed far back.

Roxas hurries out of his wagon, locking it behind him and quickens his steps to catch up to Xion before she realizes Roxas was gone. He managed to find her and clasps her hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, there you are." He lies.

"Oh, I didn't realize I lost you." Xion smiles cutely.

Roxas merely rolls his eyes and follows Xion and the other workers into the tent to prepare for the meeting they always have before a show starts. But the whole time, Roxas keeps a weary gaze up at the skies.


End file.
